


Home with Holmes

by Kizzywiggle



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Drama, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Romance, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-08 12:43:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12864762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kizzywiggle/pseuds/Kizzywiggle
Summary: An old one I'm digging out of retirement.





	Home with Holmes

**Author's Note:**

> For Bee.

The train shuddered and swayed through the coal-dark night, fog wreathing in through the window which Holmes had cracked open to freshen our private carriage after smoking his pipe. Fog and smoke mixed together to give him the semblance of a misty halo in the flickering gaslight. The air was redolent with the scent of his tobacco and Holmes stretched, lazy and self-satisfied as a cat before a crackling hearth. I sighed, mentally shaking my head: he could be so unbearably superior in the aftermath of a successful investigation.

As usual, Holmes seemed to divine my mood with little effort and turned his sparkling blue gaze upon me, a smile stretching his mobile mouth. “Ah, Watson, have I dismayed you again? Do not feel you have to restrain yourself from soundly chastising me, should it be required!” He folded slender fingers across his waistcoat and regarded me with no little amusement. I drew a deep breath and stared beyond the window at the featureless night. 

The train sped along, reaching speeds of near sixty miles an hour, and I calculated that given the two hours since we had left Bristol, we would be over halfway back to London. No doubt Holmes could have told me our exact location, should I have cared to enquire it of him, but my purpose in this calculation was merely to gather my thoughts before speaking. Also, Holmes could not abide silence unless he was the one to instigate it. He waited with ill-concealed impatience, losing by increments the mask of superiority, only to replace it with exasperation. “Watson-“ I tapped the forefinger of my left hand on my upper lip, stroking the fine mustache there, and waved my right hand to indicate a need for silence. 

I drew breath to cut Holmes down to size, but suddenly he exploded in a fury of movement, slender, gangly limbs flying about as he launched himself at the door to our compartment, twisted the lock shut and drew the privacy shade down. Whirling about, he dimmed the lamp right down, then tore off his deerstalker hat, tossing carelessly upon the seat opposite me. Startled, I looked at him questioningly, but had to wait no time at all for answers. 

Holmes dropped onto the seat beside me and raked a shaking hand through his permanently tousled black curls. No amount of pomade could tame his hair at the best of times, and this action left him disheveled in the extreme. His face appeared paler than usual in the gaslight, his eyes dilated and dark, and sweat stood upon his high brow. I regarded him with some worry; perhaps he was again partaking of morphine? Even knowing he was a man prone to mad starts and unpredictable behaviour, I could find no clue or reason for his current state. I reached out to hold his wrist and take his pulse, but he wrenched his hand free and clasped his trembling hands together. 

“Watson,” he said again, in a shaking voice – “John, I-“ 

“Why, Holmes,” I said with some surprise and no little concern, “Whatever ails you?” 

To my everlasting surprise, tears started in his eyes, and he began to sob quietly. I reached out a hand to clasp his shoulder reassuringly, only to find myself awkwardly patting his back as he dropped his head into my lap and continued to cry. As time passed and Holmes' tears slowed, I found I had wound my hand into his hair and was stroking it, offering mindless, wordless comfort. He drew a long, shuddering breath and sat up. 

“I'm sorry, Watson,” he said with a trace of his usual _sang-froid_ , patting his front in search of a handkerchief. I extracted mine and handed it over, waiting for an explanation. He gazed at me solemnly, his usually mobile features unnaturally composed. “I suppose you're wondering what all that was about, no?” I nodded quietly. He stood and began to pace within the confines of the carriage, reaching for his pipe, stroking the worn bowl and clasping the stem between his teeth, although he made no move to light it. After a few moments of this activity, he turned and dropped into the seat opposite me once more, leaning his elbows upon his knees and regarding me with utmost concentration. 

“When you first began rooming with me, I was quite resentful of your presence,” he began. “I am, as you know, a most singular man, decided in my preferences and routines, and the presence of another within my domain caused me no little anger. However, in time, I came to realise that you have a fine mind beneath your humble façade, a loyal heart within your chest, and many, many fine masculine attributes. Where I previously existed in a happy vacuum of my own choosing, I now find my mind and my life honed…refined by your presence.” He pulled on his still-unlit pipe. “As time has gone on, Watson, I have come to view you with the utmost regard.” His gaze was unwavering, sincere, and I could do no less than return it with equal solemnity. 

“Watson, I…” he broke off then moved off the seat and onto his knees before me, peering into my face with wide, beseeching eyes, stripped of his usual arrogance. Actual vulnerability swam in the crystalline depths, shocking me to the core. I thought I understood what he meant, but barely dared to believe. He stretched up a hand to cup my face, stroking his fingers – calloused from years of violin playing – along my suddenly sensitive flesh. “Watson, I esteem you. Greatly. I wish most sincerely to…to know you more deeply. To…know you ultimately, if you are willing.” 

I drew in a shocked breath. Surely he couldn't mean what I thought he did? Hope and confusion warred within my breast, causing my breath to shorten, my pulse to race. As his hand warmed to my skin I shifted, minutely, the skirts of my frock coat whispering across the leather upholstery, and this seemed to spur Holmes to action: he stretched upward, sliding his hands into my hair, and planted his mouth upon mine with alacrity. I froze like a deer scenting a hunter and held my breath. After a moment he drew back, eyes cast down, and sank into an inelegant crouch upon the floor. His face was again shuttered and remote, and I shuddered at the thought I had caused him to wall his inner self away once more. 

Without pausing to rationalise, I slid down to join Holmes on the floor, our lower limbs tangling, my coat puddling about his, our faces so close I could feel his every faint exhalation stir the hairs of my mustache. “Really, Watson,” Holmes began in his most bored and superior voice, but this time it was _I_ who lunged, _I_ who clasped a beloved face between my palms, _I_ who threw caution, society and the law to the wind in a frenzied, passionate embrace. After a moment of absolute stillness, Holmes responded with the hawk-like focus and utter commitment he bestowed upon anything which held his interest. Our mouths duelled for supremacy, tongues snaking and twining with mounting desire. We held each other's faces, fingers nestled in pomaded waves, breathing in the everyday, yet newly extraordinary scents of shaving soap and talcum powder. Holmes drew back and pressed kisses all over my jaw and mouth, all the while muttering feverishly.

“You-have-driven-me-to-distraction!” He returned to my mouth and kissed me with casual mastery. “Your-damnable-patience,” a nip to my lower lip, “Your-pedantic-slowness,” his tongue curled wetly into my ear, “That-damnably-arousing-mustache…!” He broke off with a gasp as I, maddened to boldness, slid my hand between his thighs and cupped his hardness with fingers that shook. He gasped and thrust his hips forward, rubbing his tumescence along my palm. I obliged with a tighter grasp and greater friction, delighted when he began to moan like a Bedlamite and push with wanton abandon into my eager hand.

I grabbed at Holmes' collar and pulled him to me once more, taking him in a deeper kiss than before, pouring these months of frustrated, wracking, seemingly-unrequited desire into his mouth even as my hand moved faster and faster upon his person. He groaned and grunted, my lips capturing and devouring his greedy sounds, and his hands dropped to his trouser front, releasing his buttons with quaking eagerness. Holmes batted my hand aside briefly to wriggle upward and slide his trousers down just enough to free his rosy length to my gaze. I drew in my breath: he'd felt large through the fabric of his clothing, but displayed so nakedly before me was a perfection of form I had never seen outside of a Greek marble! Holmes used his arms on the seat behind to push himself up, and sat sprawled upon the seat eyeing me with leonine satisfaction. He wrapped a hand about his length and stroked himself. Oh, he was sensitive! He responded to the slightest of touches with such blatant arousal that I felt my own arousal magnified and drawn out of me in a thrilling response. He nodded towards me, eyeing the place where I too tented the cloth of my trousers. “Now. You.” he ordered. 

With less grace than he, I maneuvered until I mirrored his pose on the seat opposite. I undid my buttons with hands suddenly cold, and drew forth my own length with some trepidation. I had never felt inadequate in the lists of love prior to this moment, but I hadn't been with another male since finishing university – and Holmes was a beast of an entirely different sort than those spotty oiks and stuck-up prefects who had initiated me into the world of masculine congress! I palmed the hot, throbbing staff and suffered Holmes' burning stare upon me with outward stoicism. After an infinite moment he met my eyes, and I startled at the hunger within. His look was somewhat devilish as he lowered his brows and growled, “Well?” I looked at him mutely; the situation had temporarily robbed me of my reason and I didn't understand what he could possibly require of me. He gestured towards where I gripped myself with casual imbeciles and said, “Display yourself properly, Watson!” Recalled to myself and somewhat chastened, yet aroused to an unbearable degree, I again remembered my training from school and stood promptly. My trousers slithered to lie about my feet and I clasped my hands atop my head, widening my stance so I thrust towards Holmes' eager self with rude vehemence. 

Ever curious, Holmes leaned forward. His breath caressed my aching flesh moistly and stirred the curls which bracketed my manhood, and I bit sharply on my lip to remain in presentation stance for him. Eyes forward, I could only hear the faint, wet sounds of his continued self-pleasure, but my mind threw up images to accompany the slap, slap, slap… Distracted thus, I yelped in a most undignified manner when he curled a catlike tongue about my tip and roughly lapped up my body's own damp emission. He purred, deep in his throat. “You are delicious, Watson,” he declared. “The very essence of maleness! Sublime…” and he returned to torturing my tenderly aching flesh with lips and teeth and tongue, until I was clawing at my hair in order not to move or to scream aloud at the pleasure he thus bestowed. He slid a hand across my hip, around my rear, and dallied briefly at my dark portal, ceasing all action when I tensed like a very statue. “No?” he questioned softly, and I shook my head in the negative. It was a long journey in my mind from our current dalliance to _that_ particular embrace, and it was not a journey I was willing to undertake at this time. Holmes immediately withdrew his finger, instead gripping my buttock with increased vigour so he could attack my now straining length with determined lust. He worked his mouth upon me with erotic ferocity and supreme confidence, a combination which quickly undid me. I felt culmination gathering deep within my body and clenched the muscles of my legs to prevent my body from sagging, begging with incremental movements for Holmes either to quit or take me to completion. The delicious suction stopped for the briefest instant and he ordered me to come in a loud, firm voice before clamping his mouth back about me and tonging fiercely under my tenderly aroused head. Helpless to disobey, I let out a wordless cry as the heat poured from my ballocks, along my rod, and exploded into Holmes' mouth. He swallowed, the movement of his throat and tongue serving to drag every last scrap of my essence out, his greedy gulps and groans sending static tingles shooting the length and breadth of my body. I shuddered as post-culmination lassitude stole over me.

I drew a shuddering breath and looked down, intending to right my clothing, and noticed Holmes was still mightily aroused, his staff now bright red with his blood, skin stretched painfully taut, his head fully exposed and shiny with desperate vigour. His hand moved faster and faster, and he widened his knees, his other hand slipping from my buttocks to cup and roll his ballocks in counterpoint to each feverish yank. His breathing was guttural and harsh, his eyes now pinpoints of brilliance in a face drawn tight with approaching ecstasy. I dropped to my knees, wrapping my hands about his, and as I felt his hot, sticky completion cover our joined hands I kissed him with all the longing, lust and love I had in me. He thrust, three, four times, pumping and twitching within our grasp, then tore his mouth from mine and rested his head upon my shoulder.

After a short interval where we both came back to ourselves, peering about the carriage and at each other with seemingly new eyes, I reached for my handkerchief – still crumpled in his pocket from his crying storm – and cleaned us as best I could. We helped each other set ourselves to rights and returned to our respective seats where we sat in mute surprise, I regarding his familiar, well-beloved form with new appreciation and wonder. Where before he had been catlike or leonine in his movements, Homes was now almost kittenish; soft, wide-eyed, adorable. I felt the change within myself, too, a rightness, a peace with what had occurred between us. I shyly smiled at him and was rewarded with an answering smile. He leaned forwards and clasped my workmanlike fingers in his sensitive artist's grasp.

“Tell me we can do that again?” he begged, the mask of hauteur he commonly wore nowhere in sight. “Tell me it was not just a dalliance to while away the journey?”

I could no more resist Holmes like this than I could when his brain caught hold of an ephemeral scent or thought on an investigation and he towed me in his wake, so I hurried to reassure him. “No, Holmes, no dalliance. This is something right, and good!” He smiled once more, and I leaned into him for a final, lingering kiss. I could feel the train decelerating: we were nearly in London once more. “No, Holmes, I have every intention of doing not only that, but far more besides, once we are in the privacy of our flat once more. I trust that your brilliant mind is as inventive and curious in the arts of love as in the field of criminal investigation?” I said the last as a tease, but at the wide, delighted grin he bestowed upon me, the hint of mischief deep in the intelligent eyes, my body thrilled to him again.

I couldn't wait to get home with Holmes!


End file.
